It was late in the evening, and after a long day of cooking over the hot stove, Benito’s shift was coming to an end. He had his headphones on, flipping burgers, and grilling chicken, whatever he needed to make for the orders that came in. He had help, of course, but he liked to make sure everything came out as close to perfect as possible. He couldn’t have people thinking he wasn’t a good cook, his parents would be ashamed. They had taught him all he knew. He picked up things during his time working at the diner too, but most of his knowledge of the kitchen came from his childhood.
He peeked out through the front, wanting to see if anyone had come through, usually things got slow at this time of night, and saw a familiar face. His features lit up, and he lowered his headphones, letting them rest on his neck. He was glad that the place was empty, there was less sound that way. Benito could enjoy a conversation with Theo, without having to try too hard to tune everything else out.
Benito made his way over to the counter, leaning over it with a smile, “What’s up, homeboy?” Theo had come to the diner enough times that he felt like he knew him. His smile faded momentarily, his body straightening up, shaking his head at the question he asked. He couldn’t help but laugh, his arms crossing across his chest. “Tedious? I don’t know, man. Most of this stuff isn’t that hard to make. It’s pretty basic stuff.”
He leaned over the counter again, “Besides, why are we acting like you’re not just going to order chicken fingers again, my man? They’re hot in the back. They’re calling your name, Theo. And that’s not my super hearing talking.”
Benito chuckled, “You gotta let me show you some better chicken someday though. Have you ever had some chicharrones de pollo? My mama taught me how to make ‘em. They’re the best. Better than any chicken finger could hope to be in its tender, crispy life.”
The tease was enough to warrant a face from Theo—it wasn’t like there was a case to fight when they all know he was guilt. In his defense, Sanctuario was probably the place where he amassed the absolute power to just eat chicken fingers. But hey, he must say that at least Benito wasn’t the only one who came out disappointed with the admission that came from the disgruntled employee himself. Not that he doubted Benito’s skills in the kitchen, but a part of him had always thought about how most of which in the menu were already made in ease as per diner demands—many a fight had broken out from that last slice of raspberry pie and that was some historic event some two years ago. They know better now. After all, the Institute looks like a fucking sci-fi base; if they can train people like them, they can have a factory of ready-made fast food items like how McDonalds does it—heck, he won’t be surprised if Mama’s itself had some magic in the basement. What if he just asked for like… ten orders of chicken fingers --------- or whatever Benito just said.
“I don’t know Spanish,” now that was easy to admit—and Theo narrowed his gaze at the other in some playful guise of warning and distrust. “--------- is this the part where you’re gonna make me say yes and expect some real nice thing and you just hand over a plate of chicken fingers because that’s just the translation and I’m the dumb shit that walked right into it?”
